


where dwell the brave at heart

by katarasvevo



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 20:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17107970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarasvevo/pseuds/katarasvevo
Summary: When Catra gets put into Slytherin, there’s the tiniest twinge of disappointment in her chest, but then her eyes lock with Adora’s from across the room by chance, and something like a challenge ignites in her veins.Seeps into every cell and pore.(Now that—that is someone Catra wants to measure up to someday.)





	where dwell the brave at heart

The first time Catra learns of magic, she is nine years and watching a sunset unfold. That is is how her story starts—in a worn-down playground outside an orphanage, where she is sitting down on one of the swings, hiding from the matron. And the other kids.

There is a tree branch in her hand. And scabs all over her knees. Her mind is spinning at a million miles per hour. The older children refused to let her join them in a game of tag, so there she sits, lonely and resentful.

Later on, Catra will not remember much of the Before: that period of her life where she went by ignored and unaware of her own abilities. But the transition to the After will always burn one of the brightest in her memories— that precise moment where the sky seemed to bloom into a hundred thousand colours as she finally stood up, then ran towards the horizon, the wind lifting her up, up, up to some unknown distance.

(It had felt like a dream then, her being scared out of her wits as she soared harmlessly above the clouds, and even now Catra isn’t sure if it had been real at all.)

But the first time Catra sees a supernova, she is eleven years old and in the Great Hall, waiting with other boys and girls her age to be sorted.

She is standing in line, anticipating her turn, when the Headmistress starts calling out the first name, and then suddenly there is a girl stepping forward, the crowd before her parting like a curtain.

Up until this moment, Catra thought she already had a good idea of what she wanted to be. She would grow up to be like the woman who took her away from the orphanage—someone capable, strong, and wise. Someone who didn’t necessarily stand out but more than made up for it by just being who she was—a virtue in its own right.

But now, as the girl—Adora—is walking up to the platform, Catra cannot help but notice the way she is moving. The way her movements are elegant and graceful; the way confidence is stamped across every square inch of her; the way she comes off as simultaneously singular and subdued—like she is the only one in this room who is unaware of how utterly remarkable she is from head-to-toe.

From the sun-golden burnish of her hair down to the seamless tread of her feet.

And when the Hat is finally placed on her head, and she gets sorted into Gryffindor, the house of the brave, Catra swears that Adora starts glowing, like a fire has been lit underneath her skin. And Catra is not wrong: when Adora stands up, and her table erupts into screams, something in the air actually shifts, changes, turning the room more vivid, more bold.

Like the world has somehow expanded to accommodate her potential. An inexplicable phenomenon.

When Catra gets put into Slytherin, there’s the tiniest twinge of disappointment in her chest, but then her eyes lock with Adora’s from across the room by chance, and something like a challenge ignites in her veins.

Seeps into every cell and pore.

(Now that—that is someone Catra wants to measure up to someday.)

 

✧ ✧ ✧

 

Fast forward a few weeks, and Adora is quick to rise to the top of their ranks—an expected occurrence.

Praise is given to her in every class (or at least the ones Catra shares with the Gryffindors); and there are always whispers about her made by the other students. Someone managed to successfully transfigure a needle into a beetle? That is where Adora comes in, always. Someone made the best Wiggenweld potion? Another point for her, the statement natural as fact.

And it makes Catra equal parts jealous and fascinated, envy winning out by an infinitesimal amount. Just enough to push her into trying her hardest to become better, brighter, and maybe even possibly the best.

So Catra learns. She makes friends with people like Scorpia and Entrapta. She uses Adora as a reference to work herself towards, and by Merlin it actually works because eventually Catra carves a reputation for herself, and instead of just Adora the name Catra comes cropping up, too.

Adora and Catra. Catra and Adora. The most brilliant students of their year—tied neck-and-neck.

Months come and go. Seasons change. And then exams are soon upon them, and with those, the end of the year. Their paths have yet to converge, hers and Adora’s, but there’s always someday, it’ll get there, soon.

And come, it does, one fateful night.

Catra is wandering the halls, breaking curfew because she accidentally lost Entrapta’s stupid crystal ball near the third floor gargoyles, when a pair of footsteps starts sounding from somewhere. Catra quickly ducks into an alcove, and freezes, sure that it must be a teacher passing by, but then Catra catches it: a flash of golden hair.

Catra steps out of the shadows, and just as expected there’s Adora in the flesh, walking towards another hall, back turned towards Catra, unaware of her presence.

So Catra lets out a cough to grab her attention. And Adora actually jumps in surprise, eyes widening as she spins around to address the source of the sound.

“Hey, Adora,” Catra drawls out, leaning against the wall, because if there’s anything Catra’s learned, it’s to not come off too strong. “Breaking the school rules, too?” An innocuous enough observation.

“I could say the same for you,” Adora returns slowly, brows lifting as her gaze sweeps over Catra in assessment. “And. Um. Hey … have we ever met before?”

Catra stifles the noise at the back of her throat. Because. _What?_ “You kidding me? Does my face not ring a bell?” she scoffs, incredulous.

“Of course it does, you’re in my Potions class. And also Transfiguration,” Adora says almost absently, lost in thought. Like she has somewhere better to be. “Catra, right? Hm... I don’t think we’ve ever talked or anything.”

“I think we did.”

“Uh … I don’t remember. Sorry.”

At this, disappointment and anger rear their ugly heads in Catra’s stomach. Disappointment, because she’d sort of, maybe hoped Adora noticed her too. Anger, because it’s the implication that stings the most, the idea that she is not even a blip on Adora’s radar. Someone not even memorable enough to consider, if Catra were to go by the tone of Adora’s voice.

It’s not that Adora is being rude—quite the opposite, actually—but rather the fact that it is as if she’d never acknowledged Catra’s presence before. As if she’d never known Catra even existed. Until now—the very first time.

And against all reason, the lack of malice rubs off Catra in all the wrong ways, because of course, Adora belongs to a whole other playing field where there is no one on her exact level she can face eye-to-eye.

“Cool,” is what Catra finally says, her tone clipped, cryptic, despite the razor-sharp smile on her face. “Well, guess I better go now. Don’t want to be too much of a bother to you, princess.” She does not bother hiding the dryness of her tone. Or the acidity laced underneath.

But before Adora can respond, Catra has spun on her heel, fuming all the way to the common room.

Letting her irritation simmer low and red-hot.

 

✧ ✧ ✧

 

Second year arrives, and with it, Quidditch tryouts, new classes, and a dangerous beast prowling on the loose.

The news spreads like wildfire all over Hogwarts: rumours of a lethal serpent paralyzing everyone in sight. It is rumour at first, a mere tale with the feel of superstition on the tongue, and then rumour no more when the first victim is found frozen near the boys’ bathrooms.

Dread and tension are quick to engulf the school population, with everyone fearing that they might be next, but despite this still life goes on.

Catra practices her flying, and is appointed Seeker for the Slytherin team. Adora remains number one. Gryffindor is on the right trajectory to win the House Cup again, much like the previous year, and intense safety protocols are enacted school-wide.

Details of the beast are kept even more under lock-and-key when there’s suddenly a second victim and a third.

“Think we should catch the thing ourselves?” Catra says with a smirk to Scorpia and Entrapta when they are all lounging around the common room fireplace one Friday evening, working on their astronomy homework.

“No way, what if we all get killed?” Scorpia exclaims, obsidian black eyes widening in the way they always do whenever she is protesting. “Death always comes to those who take action during the alignment of the moons Hyperion and Rhea! Especially when it’s on a clear Earthen day!”

“You’re doing divination already? Isn’t that supposed to be a third year class?” Catra scoffs, thinking of how Scorpia’s sayings are making absolutely no sense, but Entrapta looks to be in agreement with Scorpia, though not for the same exact reasons—just the “not getting killed” part.

It soon transpires that Catra shouldn’t have worried herself with the glory-finding. Not when Adora has taken it upon herself.

(Sure, Catra wins the Quidditch Cup for her team, capturing the snitch right underneath the Gryffindor captain’s very nose, but it does not feel so much like a victory when all eyes are now set firmly on Adora. And those two friends of her, Bow and Glimmer, whom she defeated the serpent with.)

(And just like that, Gryffindor takes the lead again. And the attention. And the fame.)

 

✧ ✧ ✧

 

Third year, an even bigger threat introduces itself in the form of a prophecy.

They hear about it in the Great Hall, when the Headmistress warns them all of a Dark Lord seeking to rule the world. She is talking about how dangerous he is, how he tried to use the serpent to take over the school just the year before, when a woman Catra has never before before stumbles in, then starts talking about vicious things.

Terrible things.

And about how the Dark Lord might be stopped.

And about the person who will be his undoing, and his eventual doom.

The words linger in the air long after she has gone. They settle on Catra’s bones, etch an indelible mark there.

_(Adora, Adora, Adora.)_

It explains a whole a lot. Adora—obviously, she was always meant to be something more. Someone destined among the stars.

And honestly, Catra thought she’d be more jealous. Envious of such a destiny. But all she feels is emptiness—pity, even, for this girl who would now have to bear its crushing weight upon her shoulders.

The year passes by with just as much excitement—and danger—as the second, and Catra can only watch how faded Adora looks at the end-of-the-year festivities, a brittle smile on her face as she lifts Gryffindor’s trophy high up into the air.

 

✧ ✧ ✧

 

Catra is fourteen when she sees a Dementor for the first time. It is a bit of an accident, a trip involving a screaming Mandrake, an unruly Hippogriff, and a broken broomstick. Later on, she will not remember how it happened exactly, but the general details are there: Catra hurriedly making her way out of the Forbidden Forest; Catra stumbling on her feet; the atmosphere around her deepening, altering.

And then: darkness. Cold, suffocating darkness all around.

(All her worst memories, brought to the forefront of her mind. Playing in high definition, the sounds, the screams stretched out into one hair-raising infinity.)

Finally, one of the teachers finding her, and then sending her off into the infirmary.

And then Catra spending a whole day recovering from the harsh shock of that accident.

Things for Catra are different, afterwards—and also for the entire school once the Ministry of Magic shockingly decides on Dementors to guard the perimeter. The Headmistress fights tooth-and-nail against the arrangement, but to no avail: _“With desperate times come desperate measures,”_ reasons the Minister.

So the whole student body goes up in arms. They form a group, call themselves the Rebellion, meet up twice a week to prepare for the upcoming war.

Adora takes charge. She takes up the lead. And Catra cannot help but notice how she makes for a good leader: always smiling, always positive even in the face of immense adversity.

(Now that. That takes something more than courage to maintain.)

The meetings go alright, and they speed by in the form of lessons. Lessons about spells most useful in the fight against the Dark Arts. But no matter what, it is proving impossible for Catra to conjure a Patronus charm. Even though it is just all simple thoughts, happy memories—feelings one must keep in mind in order to perform the charm successfully.

But here’s the thing; maybe her happiest is not good enough. Maybe it needs something more.

And Catra does not figure out what the missing component is until she finds herself shouting herself hoarse late one night, just a few steps away from the Great Lake.

She is waving her wand uselessly, the words _“Expecto Patronum”_ ringing hollow in the air, when a blaze of light streaks across the sky from the west, looking as though it were soaring towards her.

And then it spins harmlessly above her head—a falling star of every colour in the world—before landing on the grass in a burst of white.

A gasp lodges itself in Catra’s throat, because there it is: a majestic dragon unfurling its wings before her very eyes, vaporous and silvery and utterly familiar. And then there she appears: Adora at the horizon, her arm lifted in the air, her figure getting closer, and closer, and closer, just seven steps away, now six—

“Oh. It’s you,” the sentence leaves Catra’s mouth on instinct.

At this, a blush spreads across Adora’s cheeks. Her wand lowers, and her fingers curl at her sides. “Likewise,” Adora says in a quiet, muffled sort of voice, like she is treading on glass. “Didn’t expect you, either.”

“So now that you’re here, wanna go ahead and make fun of me? Because look, I really suck at this whole Patronus thing,” Catra says, and Adora starts shaking her head, her brows lifting.

“Well, it _is_ a difficult spell,” she says with a shrug. “But I know you’ll get there soon.”

Even though there is no condescension in Adora’s voice, that ever-familiar irritation starts bubbling under Catra’s skin. It’s wrong, Catra knows _—wrong, wrong, wrong,_ but it does not stop boiling until Adora says, “You know, you’re the best flier I’ve ever seen. And I’ve always wanted to fly as well as you do.”

Her voice is softer, now. Awestruck, somehow. And Catra—she is at a loss for words, to say the least.

And even more so at Adora’s next sentence: “Tell you what: if you teach me how to fly, I’ll help you with your Patronus.”

_Patronus. Flying. Teaching. Learning. Adora._ These get mixed up in Catra’s head. Get all tangled up.

(But at the end, they make an arrangement.)

(It takes a few weeks towards the end of the school year for Catra to master a Patronus charm, her lion finally burning like a dream in the darkness of night. And a few months into their fifth year for her and Adora to start having racing matches.)

(And oh, about that missing component Catra was talking about? It was sheer determination, forged straight from the heart.)

 

✧ ✧ ✧

 

It never occurred to Catra that she’d ever truly be friends with Adora. Acquaintances, maybe. Friends: not so much. But since they are well on their way to reaching that level, after Catra buried their admittedly very one-sided rivalry, it is only a natural consequence that Catra would learn things about her.

Like, number one: the fact Adora is actually an orphan and a Muggleborn, exactly like Catra, someone without a whisper of glorious nobility to her name. Which is a shock, because Catra had always assumed she’d come from a powerful wizarding bloodline.

And then there is Thing Number Two: the idea that Adora feels the most frightened among them all, because her purported future is supposed to be her one true destiny. Her one true curse.

It is a little jarring, disorienting, because Adora is the bravest person Catra knows.

“The prophecy says I can’t do it alone,” she confesses to Catra one afternoon, sounding tired and broken and weary as they’re lounging underneath the sun. “But I can’t let anyone get hurt. Not when this is my fight.”

Despite the glare of the sunlight, there’s a shadow on Adora’s face. It lines her eyes, makes even paler the already sickly pallor of her skin. However, it does not make her seem lesser. It does not make her seem smaller.

“I get the feeling,” Catra says, quietly. Because she does; to some extent. But in Catra’s case, however, it is a feeling accompanied with the fear of seeming diminutive—a selfish thought in comparison. “But you know, I don’t think we should have to shoulder our burdens alone.”

That is when Adora looks at her, her entire being just as human and imperfect and as fallible as everyone else, and then their hands are meeting. Clasping together, in a firm grip.

And in a way, it feels like fate. Like destiny.

Like hope.

 

✧ ✧ ✧

 

Their entire world goes up into flames during the start of their sixth year.

And it is not supposed to happen, Hordak rising from the ashes months earlier than what the prophecy foretold. It is not supposed to happen, the students evacuating from the school when his second-in-command Shadow Weaver rains fire upon the enchantments.

But it does, anyway. So thus begins Adora’s journey in figuring out the one thing that can stop him. The one thing that can put an end to his reign.

She leaves with Bow and Glimmer the minute the coast is clear. She departs without a word, without so much as a hint. But there comes a day when her and Catra’s paths cross again.

Catra is with Scorpia and Entrapta, working behind the scenes just like everybody else, when she sees it happen: light blossoming some distance away. And Catra knows it’s her; Catra would know Adora anywhere. Even at the end of the world.

Her hunch turns out to be correct; it is Adora, indeed, and she has come to deliver news.

“I know the one thing that can stop him,” Adora’s incorporeal manifestation whispers, hushed even in the silence of the forest, “and I need you to get it, Catra.”

Catra whispers, “Will do”, a wicked smile on her face, and it is strange, strange, strange, even with Scorpia’s brawn and Entrapta’s brain, how Catra pulls off sneaking into the castle grounds—but eventually she obtains it.

The legendary sword of Godric Gryffindor.

And leaves before she can arouse suspicion.

Finally, the day of the great battle arrives, and the sky is stained crimson, gold, grey, and there are dark thunderclouds rolling overhead, with flashes of lightning in their bellies. The school is in ruins, many people injured, and it is seeming like all hope has been lost, when Adora comes in a blaze of gold, holding the sword of Gryffindor in one hand, and her wand in the other.

Hundreds of faces turn. Hordak’s eyes simmer—pools of molten lava.

“For the Rebellion!” Adora says, lifting the sword high up into the air as she faces off Hordak across the battlefield.

It is a fight that does not last long; Hordak is outmatched and weakened. Jets of blue and red fly everywhere, and there is storm brewing in the distance, and when Adora’s blade finally passes through Hordak’s soul, a ripple effect actually takes place, like millions of people simultaneously letting out an exhale after holding in a breath.

But the blast is so great, so impactful, that Adora is thrown up into the sky. Far, far away.

And Catra takes initiative without a moment’s notice; a quick “Accio” later, her broom is in her hand, and then she is tearing straight towards Adora like a blazing comet. “Adora!” she screams, urging herself to move faster, and finally her fingers lock around Adora’s mid-catch.

It is only when cheers start erupting down below when Adora speaks. It is only when the smoke clears to reveal a night full of stars when Adora whispers, hoarsely, “You caught me, Catra.”

“Of course I did. Is that so surprising?” Catra says, trying to keep her tone light, despite the immense relief that has swept over her.

The war is over. Peace will soon be restored. They can finally return to their normal lives, and leave the battlefield behind.

“Thank you,” Adora whispers, tears bubbling in her eyes, and Catra says, “Shouldn’t I be the one thanking you? I mean, you did save everyone.”

Adora half-whispers, half-laughs, “But you saved me.”

Before Catra can respond, Adora has closed the distance between them, placing the lightest kiss on her mouth. And in a way, it feels like magic, the kind that Catra had felt the very first time she laid eyes on Adora all those years ago.

Pure, and true, and brilliant.

(That night, Catra dreams of goodness, of light.)

  


**Author's Note:**

> find me eating mcdonalds [here](http://ktrsvo.tumblr.com)


End file.
